The thought was stunning, but it brought the relief of finality. And, after all, it was what she was going to do in the end. Would not Madame Elisabeth have approved of it? Why had she not done it before? Borne on the tide of impulse, she got up and looked round the unfamiliar room for writing materials. They were there all ready to her hand. She sat down at the escritoire, and seizing a sheet of paper wrote with shaking fingers the first words that occurred to her, folded the letter, sealed and addressed it. . . . Then she paused. What did it mean, that square of paper lying in front of her? It meant exactly what it said to her, in her own handwriting—“Monsieur le Marquis de Château-Foix.” (Lucienne never could remember that one was not supposed to use titles any more.) It represented Gilbert. He would come at once, he would probably marry her to-morrow. To-morrow, then, she would be really his. It would be rest of a sort. She was far enough from feeling aversion to him. It would be the best solution. . . . No, she was not made for so heroic a remedy! “What shall I do—what shall I do?” she whispered desperately to herself, sitting in front of the letter and twisting her hands. The Caryatids of the fireplace could not advise her, nor that little marquise of the school of La Tour, who looked so rosily out of her tarnished frame over the mantelpiece. But a small sound spoke to her and decided her fate. Because it was a chilly evening Madame Gaumont had had a fire lit in the boudoir. And as Lucienne sat there, tossed on a thousand conflicting currents of thought, a piece of wood, burnt through, fell in with a gentle crash. Almost before she had realised it the girl had risen, crossed the room, flung the letter into the flames, and, returning to the escritoire, buried her face in her hands, drawing long breaths of relief. She had the sensation of having escaped a pursuer. . . .